


Ki čaka na Pomlad

by Golden_Viper



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Gen, Injury, Mild Fluff, Seasonal Imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 12:09:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golden_Viper/pseuds/Golden_Viper
Summary: Mihael’s wrists have been in pain for so long, and have affected his ability to keep doing what he loves. Settling down and waiting for winter to pass isn’t something Mihael wants to do, even if it’s what he must. He doesn’t need reminders. He doesn’t need warnings or scoldings. What he needs, perhaps, is someone who understands him.





	Ki čaka na Pomlad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akira_marq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akira_marq/gifts).



**_In Jaz sem kot Snežinka, Ki čaka na Pomlad_**  
_And I am like a Snowflake, waiting for Spring to come._  
\- ‘ _Sebi_ ’ by Zara Kralj and Gašper Šantl

  
“Hey, don’t do that, you’re going to hurt yourself.”  
Rasmus’ sweet voice is effortless to identify, directed from behind Mihael as his rhythmless footsteps approach the startled Slovenian, who stops cold. Mihael is seated alone in the scrim room, at his PC, in complete, snow-still silence and playing League. It is six in the morning - an hour no sane player on this team would be awake at considering scrims start in the afternoon - which brings Mihael to wonder why Rasmus is here at all. Mihael wants to turn, but he keeps his heavy eyes on the game. “Why are you awake?” Mihael whispers to Rasmus, with a rasp comparable to a harsh flurry, and the boy sits beside Mihael in Luka’s seat. He knows that Mihael isn’t going anywhere. Not thirty-eight minutes into a game.

“I fell during my dream last night,” Rasmus admits. “Down the stairs. I think that’s what woke me up.” Mihael glances at the bright boy to try read his face for just a second; his efforts are fruitless and Rasmus’ voice gives nothing to Mihael. “But Mihael, why are you playing? You know you’re supposed to be resting your wrists.” Resting his wrists and letting hours he could spend being productive go to waste, turning that tough recent experience all to slush? He looks at his chilly hands, keeping still in the game. When he focuses on them, they hurt even more.

“You really love League, huh?” Rasmus remarks with a small laugh, like a tiny, brief summer breeze lost after autumn, to only be heard by Mihael and himself. “Yeah, I get that. We’re really alike like that. But, you know..” Rasmus trails off, leaving his words hanging, and Mihael glances at him again. Rasmus has his hands in his lap, rubbing his wrist. Maybe Rasmus is wondering what Mihael is feeling at this moment. The icy pins deep beneath the skin, pricking away at his what life is about for him. They stay in silence until the game ends a few minutes later, at which Rasmus instantly reaches over and seizes control of Mihael’s mouse from his hesitant hand, closing the League window with a precise swipe and click, before slumping back into Luka’s chair, with a small smile on his face that vanishes with the briskness of its appearance.

“Like I said, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Mihael pushes his desk, the force nudging him and his chair back, and he turns to finally really meet Rasmus’ eye. Only then does Rasmus offer Mihael a true smile, fresh with its own childlike, Rasmus-ish viridity. “How long have you been hiding this?” Mihael bites his lip and looks away briefly. He’s only sneaked to play this cold German morning, but he still doesn’t want a lecture from Rasmus of all people. Mihael knows that he shouldn’t be playing. But how could he help it? He loves League, he truly does, and he couldn’t imagine having to freeze his play time for so long, and especially not in the middle of Playoffs. He can’t say this to Rasmus because he won’t get that - he’ll just tell him to think about his health, to put that forward instead, just like everyone else told him.

Instead, Rasmus rolls Luka’s chair over to Mihael and pulls him forward into a hug. He rests his head on Mihael’s collar and briefly nuzzles it there, radiating his own special brand of sunshine. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay too,” Rasmus whispers, and Mihael is silently grateful for that. There are so many things he wants them to know but can’t say - maybe because he can’t lock down the perfect words or the exact phrasing - but Rasmus is being understanding in his own way. It’s vague. It’s nothing special. It’s just a hug, but for Mihael, it’s the best thing Rasmus could have chosen to do to ease the frost-burn.

It even hurts to hold Rasmus - the joints and tendons howl at the exertion, almost as much as when he uses his PC. It hurts so much - both the pain and the knowledge of what the pain represents. He can’t let go of his passion, of his life. So instead he clings onto Rasmus; he is something tangible and someone like him, who loves what he does, the same way as Mihael. So they stay there, holding on tight, and Mihael feels something drip down his itching cheek.

“You can cry, Miky,” Rasmus tells him in a small voice Mihael has not heard before this morning, and Mihael does. He cries and cries and thinks of how far he’s come, how much further he can go before an injury grabs him above his hand and tosses him from the mountain he’d been climbing for years, down into the abyssal blizzard below.

Rasmus can be a warmth, for now, and it’s Rasmus that lets Mihael sleep in his room that morning, just to feel comfortable and safe (and to make sure Mihael doesn’t leave again). Mihael appreciates it, but remains silent as the cruel white moon vanishes and the sun shines through Rasmus’ window and colours the boys yellow and gold.


End file.
